He enters the chamber where the gurney is, straps open along its length as well as along the arm extensions. As the door clangs shut behind him, he looks around at the IV lines with their tubes leading to bags of poison hidden behind a black curtain at the head of the gurney, the grim doctor standing with his hands folded in front of him, the large window with the curtain drawn, the warden and technicians waiting for their parts to commence in the sickening drama. The sallow-faced coroner stands behind the warden.
His hands are cuffed in front of him, and the guards steer him to the gurney, helping him onto it and then onto his back. As his cuffs are released and his arms stretched out, guards secure the straps tightly across his body, binding him securely to the gurney. He stares at the grayish ceiling as his arms are strapped down, palms up. Rubber strictures are tightened around his arms to bring out the veins.
As the doctor swabs his right arm with alcohol, he shuts his eyes. He is twenty-five years old, dying on this day as a criminal. As he always knew he would. Long ago, he'd forgotten exactly when, he'd given up fighting fate. He ended his useless appeals and accepted that he would be put to death. So now he feels the pinch of the needle as it pierces his skin, and he opens his eyes to watch the doctor tape the tubing to his skin and remove the rubber stricture. Without looking at him, the doctor moves around the gurney to the other side and repeats the procedure on his left arm, just to make sure that they can execute him if the first line fails.
The doctor finally looks at his face as he leans down to unbutton the front of his new black shirt. It is a cold expression, and the prisoner realizes that this man who once swore to do no harm has become inured to his role in putting people to death. The glance is fleeting, though, and the doctor quickly returns to his task of securing the heart monitor to the condemned man's chest. Once he has finished preparing the prisoner for his execution, the doctor steps back, giving the condemned one last look before taking his position to monitor the prisoner's dying moments.
The warden nods to the guard to open the curtains, and the prisoner turns his head to look out at the witnesses gathered to see him die. A large group, made up of reporters, lawyers, prosecutors, family members of the victim. No one from his own family. His father abandoned him the moment he was convicted, not even bothering to come to court as he was sentenced to death.
The warden asks if he has a final statement, but the prisoner just shakes his head, noticing the reporters scribbling in their notebooks. Other faces, grimly triumphant, stare unceasingly at him, bound down like a dangerous criminal and prepared to meet justice. The warden intones his death sentence, asking God to have mercy on his soul. God will not have mercy on his soul, the prisoner knows. He has been damned through all eternity.
The lights dim in the witness chamber, and the prisoner can see his reflection clearly in the glass of the window. He stares at the image of a young man dressed in black, his feet bare, his dark hair falling away from his face as he lies on his back. Straps cross his bodies at the ankles, knees, thighs, waist, and chest. Several more run along each arm, securing down his wrists, forearms, and biceps. His chest rises and falls with each breath, pushing against the strap there. The IV lines attached to each arm snake up through a slit in the black curtain. Fluid begins to drip through them.
He turns his head away from his reflection and stares up at the ceiling. In his peripheral vision he can see the doctor, the warden, and the coroner standing, their eyes all on him, watching him as he dies. His heart is racing at it faces its last moments, his breathing shallow. He closes his eyes, and as the poison courses through his veins, he is back a hundred years.
*
He's in another death chamber, guards on each side to steer him to the lethal chair at the front of the room. The crowd watches him in silence as he is placed in the chair. The guards uncuff his hands as they secure a strap around his waist. Another strap goes around his chest as his wrists are bound down flat to the arms of the chair. His forearms then secured, the guards place his legs in the restraints, binding his ankles and lower legs. An electrode is placed on his left leg where the pants of his gray prison uniform have been cut away and the hair shaven off.
Behind him, another guard places a wet sponge on his shorn head, then quickly clamps down the electrified helmet, securing a strap beneath his chin. All eyes are on him, young and handsome, sentenced to die. A photographer to the side of the seated crowd takes a picture of him strapped to the chair, the first in the state to die in it. Tomorrow, the photograph will be on the front page of newspapers across the country.
The warden asks for his final words, but the prisoner has none as he gazes out at the pitiless faces of the witnesses. A leather gag is buckled tightly over his mouth, and he feels a surge of panic rise in him. He can't tell them to stop, that this is all a mistake. He stares at the witnesses with eyes filled with fear, and they glare back at him with vengeful anger. Even clothed he feels naked and exposed, his arms and legs strapped down to the large chair. Water drips from the wet sponge clamped to his shaved scalp, down the back of his head and the nape of his neck. He tries not to shiver in front of the witnesses, but he sees that they notice it, gratified by his fear. So many people have come to watch him die.
The mask is drawn across his face and secured to a wooden post at the back of the chair, immobilizing his head and plunging him into darkness. Gripping the wooden arms of the chair, he hears the burst of the flash as the photographer takes another picture of him as he waits to be executed. The warden intones his death sentence once again, asking God for mercy on his soul. The prisoner waits for the electricity, breathing heavily, as the clock ticks loudly away his final seconds.
The surge heaves through him, and his bound body strains against the straps, his fingers clutching the arms of the chair. He can feel his blood boil in an instant, his nerves firing as he screams from behind his leather gag. His flesh smells of burnt meat. His heart pounds erratically in his chest, too strong to give up so easily to the order of a court. Finally, the electricity stops, and he can hear voices for a moment before another jolt courses through him, and once more his tortured body bucks against his bindings. His fingernails dig into the arm of the chair. The mask and leather gag strain against his face as he tries to scream for them to stop.
The current ceases again, and he sags against the straps. He breathes heavily, wanting to tell them that he can take no more, but the electricity once more runs through his racked body, and again he is back a hundred years.
*
The prison guards drag him from the cart in the public square, his hands bound behind him with rough rope. The crowd that has gathered to watch his execution is large given that his is the only one that day. They had come to expect so many during the terror, but that was years ago. He is young and handsome and well-known, so they have come to watch him die. He doesn't bother looking for any friendly, familiar faces. His family deserted him when he was arrested, and he hasn't seen any of them since he was taken out of his father's house in irons.
The guards almost drag him up the steps of the scaffold as he stares at the guillotine looming above him, the sharp blade glinting in the sunlight. He feels sick as he realizes that it will soon cut through his neck, severing his head from his body. Quickly he is pressed against the upright bascule and straps are tightly buckled at his back and around his legs. His torn shirt is jerked down around his shoulders to expose his neck fully, and a hand grasps his hair that has grown long during his confinement and swiftly cuts it away. An official listlessly reads his aloud his sentence of death.
As he stares at the open lunette, the bascule is lowered to horizontal and shoved forward. A hand grabs his hair to lift his head over the bottom half of the lunette, and he is suddenly staring into a basket as he hears the lunette lowered and locked around his neck. The crowd cheers, then instantly grows quiet. He tries to catch his breath, to steady his trembling body. His hands clench at his back as he waits to die. He can see the shadow of the blade in the short shadows of a summer noon, and with no ceremony he sees it suddenly fall. He lets out a cry that aborts in his throat as he feels the coldness slice through him, and he is tumbling forward.
He blinks in the sunlight and sees a large hand reach down towards him. He is lifted from the basket by his hair, his eyes open and taking in the cheering crowd. His body lies below him, still strapped to the bascule, covered in blood. His sight grows dim, then, and once more he is back another hundred years.
*
He is led to a large tree with thick braches, his hands tied behind his back. A ladder rests against one of the thick braches. The noose is already around his neck, scratching his skin. The dour crowd glowers at him, and he feels naked despite his tattered shirt and dark breeches. His guards hand him over to the executioner, a large man clad in black and wearing a mask. He takes the prisoner by the arm and forces him up several rungs of the ladder, climbing up after him to fling the free end of the rope to another sturdy branch. When he is finished tying it off, he descends the ladder and stands to the side, his hands on the ladder, ready to pull it out from under the prisoner.
The condemned man stares back at the crowd, the upright citizens who sentenced him to hang, but finds not one speck of mercy in their cold eyes. He tightens his jaw and glares at them with hatred, but his heart races in his chest, fearful of the slow, painful death he will endure. He takes a deep breath, then another, filling his lungs with the precious air.
The ruddy-faced magistrate steps forward, a Bible in his hand, and prays that God will see justice done. As he consigns the prisoner's soul to either Heaven or Hell, as God so chooses, the executioner pulls away the ladder. The prisoner swings forward slightly as the noose tightens around his throat, and the sudden constriction around his neck shocks him. His legs kick in a desperate attempt to find purchase. He tries to call out, but no sound will come from his throat. He struggles to free his hands, the tight ropes burning as they bite into his skin.
He can see the crowd watching him die, enjoying the sight of his handsome face turning red, then purple, his eyes becoming bloodshot. His silent frantic struggles are their justice, their retribution, and not one leaves or turns away, not even as his legs stop kicking and his body just sways back and forth from the tree. For a few moments he can still see them, then his vision darkens and he retreats back another hundred years.
*
He is once again in a public square, once more being led to a scaffold. His hands are bound before him now as he walks through the narrow path that the guards have made through the crowd, wearing the white tunic that he was given for his execution. He stares up at the priest and the executioner as he ascends the steps, then over at the post in the center of the scaffold. A loop of rope hangs from a hole drilled through the wood near the top of the post.
As the priest prays for his soul, the guards place his back against the post, raising the loop over his head and bringing in the slack. Another guard binds his body tightly against the post with ropes until the prisoner is immobile. The priest continues his droning prayers; the magistrate pronounces his death sentence. The prisoner breathes heavily as he feels the rope that will strangle him brush against his neck. It is rough, scratching his skin as the executioner adjusts it to begin the garroting.
The prisoner can sense the presence of the executioner behind him. The silent, friendless crowd watches him as he tests the bonds that bind him to the post. They are tight, pressing into his flesh. The rope becomes tighter against his throat, and he swallows hard. The rope tightens yet again, and the prisoner's hands twist in their bindings, scratching his wrists with the rope.
The executioner is taking his time tightening the rope, and the prisoner thinks that he may go mad before they finally kill him. The crowd watches him with relish, though, enjoying the spectacle of this handsome man slowly executed, his strong body's futile struggle to free himself as the rope tightens against his throat. His hands clench and pull at the ropes around his wrists, rubbing the skin raw. He tries to kick the ropes away from his legs, but he can barely move them. He is capable of nothing more than a rasp now as the garrote tightens on his neck, and slowly even that is cut off as the rope cuts into his neck. His desperate heart pounds hard in his chest. As his vision darkens, he travels back a hundred years.
*
The church dominates the square, casting a shadow over him. He is being bound to a stake, his hands cuffed at the back, chains crisscrossing his body tightly until he is fastened securely. He stands on a small wooden platform, raised about three feet off the ground and surrounded by bundles of wood and kindling. When the guards have finished binding him, they descend from the platform, leaving him alone at his stake.
He glances around the city square, surrounded by large stone buildings. In the center is a statue of a king on h0rseback, and he sees that several young boys have climbed up on it to better see his execution. As the executioner lays a few more bundles of kindling on his pyre, he stares up at the clear blue sky, a flock of small birds flitting from the eaves one building to the next. For a brief moment, he imagines himself with a pair of wings, flying away from the terrible death that awaits him.
As the executioner grabs a lighted torch from an assistant, an official lists the crimes for which the condemned has been sentenced to die. When the official is done and has consigned the prisoner's soul to the eternal flames of Hell, the executioner places the torch to the pyre. The condemned watches as he moves around the stake with the torch, setting the pyre aflame all around.
He can feel the heat almost immediately as the fire catches quickly. The flames leap up before him, and he stares at them for a moment, then out at the assembled crowd. For most of them this is the first time that they will see a man burned to death. As a youth, he had seen a woman burned alive, and he can still hear her screams from when the flames engulfed her. She had died relatively quickly, the pyre being large and covering her up to her waist. His pyre is large, but he is chained above it. His death will come more slowly. He waits, the heat of the flames intense as they make their way towards his helpless body.
He writhes in the chains binding him to the stake as the flames begin to rage higher. There is little smoke so far, but the heat is unbearable. Sweat gathers on his brow and drips into his eyes, stinging them. He pulls on the shackles securing his wrists, but he can't free them no matter how desperately he struggles. The crowd watches him in fascination, hurling insults at him and shouting for him to burn.
The flames begin to close in on him, licking at his legs and feet. He cries out in pain as his flesh is singed, but the chains hold him fast as he struggles. His skin reddens and blisters, then chars. His white tunic burns away and his skin catches fire. He screams now, the pain unbearable as his nerves are seared. His lower body is burning away, his genitals gone, his chest catching fire. Frantically he tries to free himself from the chains that bind him to the stake. He cannot breathe as the ash and hot smoke scorch his throat and lungs. His hair burns away, his face black from soot. For a few more moments he struggles against the chains before the flames darken, and he is a hundred years further in the past.
*
Another scaffold. Another crowded square. The headsman stands next to the block, the large axe in his hands. The condemned feels cold as he walks up the steps of the scaffold, huddled in his black cloak against the cold. A light snow is falling, and it seems to muffle the sounds of the city. Once at the top of the steps, he lifts his trembling hands and unties his cloak, handing it to an attendant.
The axe is large, and the prisoner prays that the headsman took the time to sharpen the blade. He had been terrified when he's been sentenced to death, but relieved in a small measure when his execution was commuted from hanging, drawing, and quartering to a more merciful beheading. Still he feels sick and averts his eyes from the axe.
The crowd stares at him in silence as his death sentence is pronounced. The executioner asks if he has any words, but he declines to make a final speech. He hands the headsman a small purse, all he has left as his father has forsaken him, and asks that the executioner be quick and precise with the blow to his neck.
As he shivers in the cold, the prisoner's hands are placed behind his back and swiftly tied together by one of the guards. He is helped to his knees before the block, and his black shirt is pulled down on his shoulders, exposing his neck. He can see his breaths coming from his mouth as short puffs of mist. Glancing at the axe one last time, he leans over and places his head on the block, exposing the nape of his neck to the headsman.
The crowd is hushed as it waits for the blow, and the prisoner can hear the beat of his heart in his ears. He feels the brief cold touch of the snowflakes as they fall on his bare skin. It seems an eternity as he waits with his neck on the block, but he finally senses the swift movement of the headsman, and a sudden blow crashes against his neck. His mouth gapes in a silent cry, but his head does not fall to the scaffold. He hears voices, then another blow strikes the nape of his neck, and he feels himself plummeting.
He is lifted to see the crowd as the executioner declares for the crowd to behold his head, and he sees his slumped, bloody body collapsed onto the scaffold. Darkness again, and back another hundred years.
*
He is driven to the gibbet in the back of a cart, his hands bound behind his back. His clothing had been fine once, but now he wears a crude tunic of rough cloth that clings heavily to his body in the rain. The cart stops with a jolt beneath the crossbeam, and the guards force him to his feet and to the edge of the cart. The noose hangs before his face and is quickly slipped over his head and around his neck. He looks out at the crowd gathered outside the gate of the city, the peasants and artisans standing in the rain as the nobles watch from a covered grandstand.
Not so very long ago, he had sat with his family in that grandstand, watching as other criminals were put to death. His family is not there today, having forsaken him the moment he was convicted and sentenced to hang. There is no one present to mourn his death, just an unruly mob to rejoice in it. As his legs are tied together with rope, he looks down, ashamed to be dying like a common criminal. Rain drips down his face from his soaked hair.
A city magistrate pronounces his death sentence, and the cart begins to move. The condemned stretches his bare feet out to keep his feet on the cart as long as possible, but soon he is airborne. The noose tightens around his neck, and he kicks his legs back and forth frantically. He struggles to free his bound hands as he gasps desperately for breath that will never enter his lungs.
He can hear the roar of the crowd as he struggles, his body unwilling to give in to the inevitable. His wrists are rubbed raw by the wet rope binding them, but he continues to wriggle his hands, pulling hard on the rope that ties them together. The pain in his neck is unbearable. He needs air, but the noose is tight around his throat. He feels his cock swell and hopes the crowd can't see his humiliating condition. He hears a roaring in his ears, not sure if it's the mob or his frantic blood. He stills trashes his bound legs in a desperate attempt for earth.
For what seems several long minutes, he fights the oncoming darkness until his exhausted body finally stills. He twists in the noose, the rain beating down on him as the crowd gawks at him, until his vision fades and it is a hundred years earlier.
*
As he is led from the town by the noose around his neck, his hands tied behind his back, he can see the large wheel propped up at an angle against a low wooden wall. Beside it is the tall post where the wheel will eventually be raised atop of, exposed to the full sun of the hot August days.
He stumbles, but the guards quickly grab his arms and drag him to his feet, not allowing him to slow the inexorable march to his doom. The crowd gathered to watch his execution wait silently as he is led up the hill. At the top, his hands are untied and his garments stripped from his body. The guards grab his arms and guide him to the wheel, pressing his back against it while spreading his arms and legs and quickly tying his wrists and ankles to the wheel rim. The rope around his neck is also tied down to the wheel, splaying him open for his torment.
The sheriff pronounces his death sentence and orders the executioner to commence. The big man with muscular arms picked up a large cudgel and approaches the prisoner. Taking a deep breath, the condemned man tries to brace himself for the blow, but the cudgel slams hard into his right ankle, shattering it to pieces. He screams and tries to free his bound arms, but his left ankle is quickly shattered.
His knees are smashed next, then the executioner brings the cudgel down on his shins, demolishing his leg bones. The prisoner watches as the executioner raises the cudgel high above his head to bring it down on his thigh, and his screams grow even louder. As the executioner raises his cudgel to break his left thigh, the prisoner pleads with him to stop. The executioner ignores him and smashes his thigh to pieces.
He breathes heavily, sobbing hard and crying out in pain as the executioner sets aside his cudgel for the moment. The condemned man begs for water, for mercy, but the executioner unties his broken ankles and begins to braid his shattered legs through the spokes of the wheel, eliciting more screams from the prisoner.
When he has finished binding the prisoner's ruined legs back to the wheel, the executioner once again picks up his cudgel and takes aim and the prisoner's right forearm. Methodically, the executioner goes about the job of shattering the prisoner's arms at the forearms, elbows, and upper arms as the prisoner screams for mercy. Once again he braids the shattered limbs through the spokes of the wheel and binds them in place.
When his useless limbs are twisted through the wheel and secured with ropes, the prisoner looks over at the sheriff and begs him for a merciful end, a blow to the head or a sword through his neck. The sheriff gives him a cruel smile and orders that the prisoner be placed on top of the post. Ladders are raised against the thick upright beam, and several men lift the wheel up and fit it on top, pounding in pegs and nails to hold it in place.
The sheriff announces that the condemned will now be left to die and his body to rot away without Christian burial. The prisoner hears the soft tread of footsteps on earth as the crowd leaves him to die alone, his body covered with sweat and blood, the flies already buzzing around him.
He closes his eyes against the glare of the midday sun, but his eyelids offer thin resistance. The pain of his shattered limbs consumes him, and soon he is covered in flies and insects. When he opens his eyes he can see the vultures circling above him. He blinks and tosses his head from side to side to get rid of the flies that crawl on his face. They fly off, then land again on his lips and eyelids.
He cries out for water, but no one is around to hear him. His skin reddens and his lips blister under the relentless sun. He had been handsome once, his lean body desired by women. Now his body is broken, his face burned and bloodied and covered by flies.
The night offers little respite. Without the sun fevering his brain, all he can feel is the intensity of the pain of his wrecked body. In the morning the vultures start to feast on him, tearing with their sharp beaks at the torn flesh of his arms and legs. Several of the villagers have come to watch, including the sheriff, and he can hear them whispering and laughing. None offer him any solace or aid.
The vultures continue to devour him on the third day, no longer content with the putrefying flesh of his limbs. They probe his belly and his eyes and lips, and he no longer has the strength to cry out in pain. Blinded, he no longer sees the glare of the sun, but he can feel its heat. His fevered mind finally darkens, and once again he is back a hundred years.
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